


A Good Fight

by martyrologics



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Fight Sex, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, PwP but also PvP, Rough Sex, Violence, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:27:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21587602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/martyrologics/pseuds/martyrologics
Summary: All Mandalorians enjoy war; but the Sith make a game of it, and seldom are they satisfied with just the victory alone.
Relationships: Shae Vizla/Male Sith Inquisitor, Shae Vizla/Sith Inquisitor
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21





	A Good Fight

**Author's Note:**

> Boss battle, but it's porn. Set on Rishi, during the Torch quest which ends with a duel against Shae Vizla to get her to help against Revan later on.  
> Unnamed Sith protagonist, written with a zabrak Sith Inquisitor in mind, but can easily be read as male Sith of any race. Enjoy!

If the Sith thinks anything of the flaming chaos pit that the arena suddenly turned into, he says nothing of it at all.

He merely leaps from platform to platform, graceful as a vine cat and, despite the hood covering his face, Shae knows; just as smug. The Mandalorian finds herself fleeing (or, as she’d prefer to call it, falling back) across the arena and the Sith- following. Even in the air she isn’t safe; she flares up her jetpack and goes up to rain fire from above, and the Force steals her breath away as it pulls her back down with vengeance. No pain follows after her feet are forcibly reconnected with the ground however; no brutal strikes of electricity, no crack-and-snap of her bones by an invisible hand.

The message is quite clear.

This isn’t the first time a Sith tries to assert himself over her; but it is a first time in her long life she feels herself being well and truly toyed with. The Mandalorian grits her bared teeth; the snarl should be invisible under her trusty helmet, and yet the Sith turns the yawning darkness of his hood towards her as if he could smell her frustration on the hot air. For a briefest moment Shae thinks she spies a gleam of curious yellow eyes, before the Sith closes the distance in another smooth leap, and she has better things to worry about.

His lightsaber burns scorch marks against her armour again and again and she barely has time to retaliate at all; the Sith is pursuing her with reckless abandon, seemingly tireless in his assault. The twin blades blur together in his hands, and though he leaves himself wide-open with every twirl of the weapon, she cannot catch balance for a second that she needs to aim; pushed to this endless dance of a frustrating defensive until the Mandalorian can barely tell the floor from the ceiling from all the times she tried to gain some distance with her jetpack- and the Sith wouldn’t let her.

Now, Shae’s a Mandalorian; she will persist. Defending herself is not her favourite past-time; she did always prefer the offensive, but a fight is a fight and she intends to see that one until the end, to give as good as she could- for now she already knew there was no good chance she could give as good as she was getting. Perhaps with an element of surprise... Ah, well. When the next blow comes, she lets the lightsaber pass against her _jatne ghet’bur_ ; and as it does, it cleaves the sturdy throat-guard in half and tears into her breastplate- but the Sith, clearly having expected his cut to be dodged, sways for a moment, a breath, a half of a second, the smallest of hesitations.

His yellow eyes flicker in the depths of his hood with a near childish surprise, before they are instincitvely closed as a gauntleted fist dives into the shadows and connects with a satisfying crack.

_So he does have a nose_ , Vizla thinks, and then her body explodes with pain and when her vision returns, she is flat on her back. Something smells like lightning-struck flesh and she has a fairly good idea what.

The Mandalorian shudders with revulsion as she feels claw-tipped fingers pry under her helmet in an attempt to tug it off. Rather indelicately, one might add. Opening her eyes with a groan just as her helmet is pulled off, she is greeted with a sight she would not wish on her worst enemy. Well, maybe some of her worst enemies…- The Sith is standing over her, both boots planted firmly on her wrists on the opposite sides of her body. Shae considers trying the jetpack again, just to see if she could make him lose his balance, but she has a nasty suspicion he would’ve just done a backflip and she might not survive a next Force shock.

Drip, drip. A few drops of liquid fall on her bared face, and for a moment she feels a flare of anger thinking that the goddamn Sith animal is drooling on her- and then she’s soothed in satisfaction as one of the drops saunters down her jaw to the corner of her mouth and she tastes the salt and and metallic tang of it. Blood then.

“How long was I out?” She rasps with some effort, gears in her head turning as she looks up at the Sith above her. He hasn’t pulled his hood down, but from her disadvantageous position, she can now easily peer underneath. Downlit by the arena fire, the Sith’s face looks like a mask, and only after a moment the Mandalorian realises the dark stripes on his face must be warpaint or tattoos, not some void-filled holes in the skull.

“Just a few seconds. You’re sturdy,” the Sith says, with somewhat unseemly approval. He looks young and he sounds young. Feels young, too. And powerful. Though Force-blind, the Mandalorian can sense some wrongness curling around the Sith- dark and wild- and tasting and touching her too, each electric breath bringing a shiver to her back like an overly eager lover. She can’t quite imagine how the Sith’s presence feels to other Force-sensitives. 

She tries to get up and the Sith doesn’t let her. She tries a little harder, teeth bared, and the Sith places a boot on her breastplate. She thrashes and slams her freed fist against his leg- with no small amount of force, and he isn’t wearing any armour- and he says;

“I thought Mandalorian duels are to death.”

“You are not a Mandalorian,” she spits, and he utterly unexpectedly hops onto her body to crouch on her chest. The _beskar_ armour doesn’t even creak and Shae feels a surge of pride in the Mandalorian craftsmanship. Though the Sith’s weight is considerable, it is easily decompressed and spread out evenly by the clever construction of the breastplate. It doesn’t break her sternum nor displaces her clavicle, nor do her ribs crack, nor anything funky happens to her body that one might expect to happen to it with a weight of a fully grown Sith Lord pressing down on it.

Well, except for that one thing, but it’s just the adrenaline talking is all.

“Besides,” Shae adds in a studiously casual tone, as if a Sith crouching upon her breast like a wild animal preparing to take a bite out of her face was a daily occurence. “It was just a fun little sparring.”

“It was fun,” the Sith admits with joyful wistfulness and leans over her, keeping his balance in the crouching position by some seemingly impossible feat of contrived athletics. He sniffs the air, or perhaps sniffles at the blood seeping from his smashed nose, and against her better judgement, the Mandalorian tries to buck him off again.

For a moment Shae thinks she is being force choked, until she realises the hot and dry sensation on her crushed throat is the skin upon Sith’s clawed fingers. More tactile than most of his compatriots, this one, then. She likes that. She even likes him, in a way. It feels like he belongs in here, with her, over her, in this burning-hot arena with his burning-hot skin and burning-hot eyes that, impassioned, gleam red now.

Malgus has once told her that even though the Sith thrive on passion, a Sith who wears his emotions on his sleeve makes an easy prey for a more deceptive opponent. He has cleary not met this one.

_Or maybe he has_ , Shae thinks, clawing hopelessly at her opponent’s hand on her throat. _Maybe that’s why he’s dead_.

She activates the jetpack again and this time, the Sith appears taken by surprise when she bucks him off. He is either not quick enough or not willing to release her throat, so his claws vizg against the pitiful remains of the _jatne ghet’bur_ and leave stinging lines along the Mandalorian’s skin as she tears her throat from his grasp. He does that backflip though, the motherfucker, and, as she zooms up and away, he lands on all fours with an animal’s grace.

He pursues her across the arena in a series of inhumane Force-fueled leaps. He doesn’t pull her down again, though, instead chasing her to the edge of the arena where she flies high up to use the ceiling exit. It would be a weakness to linger. And she is a Mandalorian and she is not weak. No sir.

She hovers just for a smallest moment to look down at the Sith, and sees him looking up at her, his hood fallen from his thrown-back head.

In his hand, he holds her helmet.

She frowns.

“Toss me that,” she calls out casually, with practiced, steady lightness to her voice. The Sith turns the _buy’ce_ in his hands to look at it, his eyes seemingly caught by the darkened visor because he doesn’t look up at her when he says, just as casually as she did,

“No.” And then, “Come and get it.”

It’s technically not even a _hidden_ trap, so there’s no shame in falling for it, Shae consoles herself as she lands with a thud. Gritting her teeth and clenching her fists, she marches up to the Sith, shoulders squared, and reaches out to yank her helmet from his grasp. He half-steps back and raises his arm, dangling the _buy’ce_ above her head- high above her head, tall as he is- and it’s so very childish that it almost makes her smile. It’s also very annoying, so she scowls instead, to the Sith’s obvious mirth. She could use her jetpack to fly up and take the helmet, but it would mean playing this petty game and jumping to a Sith’s hand like a kath hound eager for a treat, besides.

Instead she winds up discreetly and punches the grinning Sith right into solar plexus, just below the edge of his light breastplate. Her heavily-armoured fist connects with ridiculously thin and bendy cortosis plates, protecting the Sith’s ribs from a shallow lightsaber strike at most, and it produces a very satisfying thud.

Predictably, he stops smiling, and predictably, he wheezes, and then, predictably, he folds in half so deeply his forehead hits one of Shae’s pauldrons (perhaps he folded in half before wheezing; hard to tell with how fast it happened). Unpredictably, just as she’s plucking the helmet from the Sith’s pain-tightened grasp, Vizla feels his mouth on the side of her neck, right where her _jatne ghet’bur_ once protected her.

She tenses and tries to leap back, thinking he means to tear out a piece of her throat with his admittedly rather sharp teeth; she can feel the little needle-pricks as the Sith places sloppy kisses upon her neck, climbing to the corner of her jaw. His body is curled around hers; she didn’t even notice the moment he slipped an arm around her waist, now successfully blocking her retreat.

Not that he couldn’t successfully do that with the Force, of course. It’s almost nice that he didn’t; terribly insulting on the other hand.

She struggles against him in a closer and sweatier kind of competition than their duel; perhaps more exhilarating, possibly more dangerous. She bears her fists, strength, intelligence, her whole body against the Sith, but he’s heavier, stronger and refuses to relent. And when he cleverly undoes her belt and bandolier and harness and tosses them aside- far away aside; he doesn’t underestimate her that much, apparently- along with the jetpack and weapons they held, Shae knows he won. Not because he disarmed her, but because she let him.

The Sith knows it, too, and he looks entirely too smug about it; flushed with victory and fervent with desire. He grabs and presses down on Shae’s shoulders; she snarls and struggles, but it’s a struggle, not a fight, and soon enough he forces her to her knees. Shae frowns and snaps her teeth at the air.

“I hope you already had all the little Sith you wanted to have, then,” she warns, baring her teeth. The Sith laughs and kneels to join her on the grated floor, heat coming from the fires below rivaled only by the heat rolling off him in waves. He rears against Shae, mindlessly pawing at her breastplate, looking for the buckling; all he achieves is a useless scrape of his claws against the solid _beskar_. Frustrated, he pushes the Mandalorian backwards with a forceful insistence, until she relents and falls flat on her back. He crawls over her then, hastily, his robes whispering against her armour, and grabs Shae’s head steadily between his big, clawed hands.

The Sith’s yellow eyes reflect the arena’s fire, and his skin reflects its heat. His weight, solid and manly and a pointed reminder she could not easily escape now, shifts against Shae when he leans to kiss her lips. She stubbornly refuses to open her mouth to his advances. He licks and laps at her grit teeth, at the corners of her mouth; bites viciously at her lips and jaws and cheeks, but Shae holds fast and is rewarded with the Sith’s almost palpable frustration. She likes that; she likes his vexed grunts and raspy panting that increase the intensity of that hot throbbing between her legs. Yearning to relieve at least some of the mounting tension, she arches against him with a buck of her hips.

He snarls so loudly that for a moment Shae feels as if she had a kath hound on top of her, rather than a Sith. He drags his claws down her face, leaving reddened welts behind and, once again trying to claim her mouth with his, he paws and scrapes at her armour, hopelessly looking for access to living flesh and finding none. No longer able or willing to resist, Shae kisses him on the curled lips hard enough that their teeth clang together; the Sith doesn’t seem to mind. He licks into Shae’s mouth with wild abandon, and, seemingly lost in his own passion, ruts mindlessly against her armoured form, each solid buck of his hips inching her a bit across the grated floor.

Shae grabs one of his greedy wandering hands and, squeezing the Sith’s clawed fingers strongly to sober him up a little, leads it to the buckles he was looking for. He eagerly rips at the _ven’cabur_ protecting her crotch and upper thighs while she works the more complicated buckling of her breastplate, painfully aware of how stiff her nipples are underneath the impenetrable _beskar_.

She’s done with the breastplate and the lacing of the arming jacket underneath by the time Sith manages the buckling around her hips; what straps he doesn’t manage to unbuckle, he rips loose. Normally, Shae would be annoyed at that, but in this moment, she is too turned on to care; she pulls her heavy breasts free of the arming jacket, and kneads them roughly, alternating between frantically rubbing and pulling at the flesh, and pinching the stiffened nipples; tiny pricks of pain cause her cunt to leak and throb, and she wants nothing but to be touched.

It’s been long years since she’s felt a passion so overwhelming, strong and youthful. A thought passes through her mind like an errant butterfly that the Sith is using the Force on her, but then he pulls down her trousers, grabs at the soaked fabric of her undergarments and yanks it aside to nose at her crotch; he licks a long stripe along her cunt, and the thought, and all the other thoughts, are lost.

She keens and kicks at his chest with a solid thud when he straightens up, taking that strangely muscular, alien tongue, and the maddening heat of his breath, away.

“Get back in there,” she orders, and curses him in _mando’a_ , but the Sith doesn’t take orders from her. He sits back on his haunches and narrows his yellow eyes with mirth, watching her writhe against him and squeeze her own breasts desperately for a few long, white-hot seconds. He grins then and shoves two fingers into her; breath hitches in her throat and she grunts with delight. The claws’ scraping hurts, but the sensation of finally being filled up is well worth the pain. She clenches around his fingers, drawing them in, and sways her hips to encourage him to move his hand, but the Sith seems as happy to torment her as she was happy to torment him just a moment before, and he yanks his hand away.

“Look how wet you are,” he says with somewhat mean satisfaction, leaning over Shae and dangling his dripping fingers over her face. She can’t quite suppress a reedy gasp when the harsh fabric of his pants rubs against her exposed cunt every time he shifts against her.

“It’s all you, too,” he drawls, his raspy voice breaking slightly. “I know what you’re thinking; but no. No Force, no dark and strange Sith magic...-” He pauses and licks his dry lips as a drop of thick fluid falls from his hand onto Shae’s face. “You’re doing this all to yourself.”

Shae snarls with indignation and rises up to bite at his fingers, and though the Mandalorian knows he’s quicker than she is, he doesn’t pull his hand away. She tastes herself, and then, when she bites down harder, the salt and copper of the Sith’s blood. She can clearly see his mouth curl and his eyes flash; though not as clearly as she can feel his dick twitch against her. He yanks his fingers out of her mouth, violently, dragging thick strings of blood along with her drool, and grasps at her shoulder and hip, strongly enough to bruise her flesh if it weren’t for the remaining armour pieces. Guessing his intention, Vizla begins to protest hazily, but the Sith flips her onto her stomach so effortlessly it hurts more than actually hitting the floor does. She gathers herself on her hands and knees sluggishly, and hears the jingle of the Sith’s belt buckle as he undoes his trousers.

He gives her no warning before mounting her violently like a rut-crazed animal. Shae gasps at the sudden sensation of a thick cock splitting her cunt, filling her to the brim. The Sith’s body falls heavily upon her armoured back, her knees and elbows buckling under his weight. He gives her no reprieve before backing up a bit and slamming his dick into her again, adapting a quick, snappy rhythm that forces grunts and moans out of Shae with every wet slap of his hips against her ass. She stretches her arms in front of her desperately, locking her elbows against the threat of falling on her face under each powerful thrust.

The Sith’s arms sneak around her waist and his hands find her swaying breasts; Shae keens desperately when he begins to knead and pull at her flesh in time with his thrusts, tugging at her already-sore nipples and drawing red lines with his claws at every squeeze. Unbearable heat pools between her legs and her throbbing clit begs to be rubbed, but Shae knows she’s not gonna be able to hold up the Sith’s weight if she reaches one of her arms under herself. She curses the bitch position he forced her into and bucks her hips wildly, inviting a faster, harder pace to compensate. The Sith takes her up on her invitation eagerly, and his grunts and whimpers of pleasure soon turn to desperate panting. Shae feels pain blooming in the nape of her neck then (damn that ruined throat-guard) and realises foggily that the Sith has sunk his teeth into her.

His skin has become strangely staticy, and a quiet electric crackle accompanies one of his hands when he slides it from her breast; the sound barely audible under the racket of their shared grunts and moans, the lewd wet sounds of their rough fucking, the clatter of armour against the grated floor; but it’s there. His fingers crawl to Shae’s unprotected neck and up her face, to her mouth, pushing roughly past her teeth- and then out, and in again, deep enough that she almost chokes. She hears his muffled keen, and his thumb strokes her lower lip insistently as he finger-fucks her mouth; she understand he’s encouraging her to bite, so she does.

In response, he summons the Force lightning.

“ _Shabuir_!” she yells through his fingers still lodged in her mouth, wanting nothing more than to turn around and punch him. But the streak of profanities melts into a loud, stuttering moan when she orgasms violently, the crackling pain of the lightning-licked flesh turning to foreign, electric pleasure that has her twitching spastic and clenching around his cock, driving her hips wildly against him to impale herself deeper, harder- until it’s finally too much. She can barely feel the Sith tightening the hold of his jaws on her neck when she instinctively tries to crawl away from him, his bleeding hand leaving her mouth to tangle in her hair instead, keeping her in place, pulling and tugging- but she can feel the strange vibration of his chest pressed flush against her, even through her armour. Laughter; he’s laughing.

She really tries to turn around and punch him then, but her weakened arms can no longer hold up her own weight, much less the Sith on top of her, and her front hits the floor when they give way. The grating bites into the sensitive flesh of her ravaged breasts, making her shudder. With her ass up in the air like that, her cunt is well and truly exposed now, and the Sith fucks her harder and faster, rendered near mindless with desperation. He is panting heavily through his broken nose; with his teeth clenching around the flesh of Shae's neck, he punctuates each violent snap of his hips with an almost-pained grunt.

Shae's hair is released from the pulling grasp; she's almost relieved until she feels the pain blossoming in her breasts and flanks, where the Sith's claws sunk deep enough that the wounds will certainly leave scars. And yet the pain and the discomfort of overstimulation soon fades to numbness and then- when Shae reaches one of her hands over her head and grabs at the Sith’s hair and he growls and growls and cannot stop growling- burning heat once again begins to spill across her body. Her second orgasm is not teased out, but violently wrenched out of her and this time, both the pain and the pleasure are greater. She begins to fear the Sith may never be done unless he rips off her head or whatever it was that brought his kind pleasure, that he will tear her apart, looking for release in her guts if he cannot find it in her cunt. Though she is resilient, she has no idea how much of a Sith’s idea of fun she could realistically survive, were he to grow more violent.

He doesn’t; he releases her neck from his teeth quite suddenly, and pulls the claws free of her flesh to wrap his arms around her waist tightly. His raspy panting and barely-audible whimpers get louder, gaining a new, desperate urgency. The Sith’s hips stutter in their heretofore relentless rhythm and he rams his cock deep inside the woman, filling her up as he comes with a short, muffled scream. Mewling hoarsely, he curls his body on top of Shae, and rubs his forehead and temple against the armour on her back frantically as he fucks her through the aftershocks. His cum spills out of her and splatters on her inner thighs and drips onto the floor with Sith’s every stuttering, uneven thrust.

He pauses for a moment to catch a shaky breath, and Vizsla takes that opportunity to buck him off her. For once, he doesn’t put up much of a fight and falls backwards, though he doesn’t hit the floor grates. He recovers quite gracefully, as Sith usually do; in half a breath he’s on his feet, buttoning his trousers and buckling his belt. Despite regaining the air of arrogant nonchalance, he is flushed heavily and still panting with relief, with his sweat-dampened hair messy and disheveled, and a wet spot on his trousers where the fabric was pressed against Shae’s dripping cunt. He also has dried blood smeared all over his nose and mouth, which brings a small, satisfied warmth to Shae’s bruised chest when she turns to look at him.

She is quick to put on her own armour; she’s had years of practice, complicated buckling or not. Her underwear is completely soaked through and torn in places, but the _ven’cabur_ hides it well enough. She laces the arming jacket over her sore and wounded breasts- catching the Sith giving her a wistful look, she shows him a middle finger and he chuckles almost good-naturedly. How strange, this one. She fixes her breastplate in place and limps away to retrieve her mishandled jetpack.

Her joints pop loudly when she stretches like a strill in front of the fireplace. Buckling the jetpack harness, she watches with smug satisfaction as the young Sith fiddles around with his broken nose, before finally he winces and sets it straight with a loud and incredibly gratifying crack.

Their eyes meet and fall on the discarded _buy’ce_ at the same time; spying a mean glint in the Sith’s yellow eyes, Shae dashes for the helmet despite the protests of her bruised body, and retrieves it before the Sith can get any new funny ideas. For the smallest moment he didn’t look quite done with her; not that a Sith can ever be truly done with anything, or have any choice but to return to whatever desire torments him over and over again.

Still, he relents for the time being, and throws his hood over his head, the shadows beneath masking his face and making him a stranger once again. Shae takes that as a cue to put on her _buy’ce_ as well. Its visor interface flares to life, and the helmet’s familiar, comforting weight makes it easier to forget about the wet underwear clinging to her still-twitching cunt.

“I will see you on the battlefield, then,” the Sith says smugly, and it’s not a question. Shae frowns under her helmet, but she’s too old to be petty, so she tells the truth.

“I never miss a good fight.”


End file.
